Equal and Opposite
by Elliott Silver
Summary: "To every action there is always opposed an equal reaction: or the mutual actions of two bodies upon each other are always equal, and directed to contrary parts."


Title: Equal and Opposite

Author: Elliott Silver

Summary: "To every action there is always opposed an equal reaction: or the mutual actions of two bodies upon each other are always equal, and directed to contrary parts."

Author's note: I meant to write a serious piece, but this is what happened. No infringement intended to either Kerry Greenwood, or Sir Isaac Newton.

* * *

/*/*/*/

* * *

"Miss?"

Dot's voice breaks into the bedroom tentatively. Dawn's hardly broken across the Melbourne sky and the dark drapes are still firmly drawn.

Phryne Fisher curls deeper under the chenille covers and squeezes her eyes shut.

"Miss?"

Dot is not to be deterred so Phryne slowly raises her head from the thick silk pillowcase.

"Yes, Dot?"

"Hugh – I mean, Constable Collins – just rang. A body's been found in Fitzroy Gardens."

"Yes."

Dot shifts nervously in the doorway.

"Well, you see, he can't seem to find the Inspector." She draws in a deep breath as if she's finally spoken the worst. "He's asked if you would come."

"Yes," Phryne says again. It seems that's nearly all she's capable of saying this morning. "I'll come right away."

* * *

/*/*/*/

* * *

She leaves the Hispano-Suiza parked on Wellington Parade and slips through the park's stone edging where Hugh is waiting impatiently.

Elms line the pathways, creating dense avenues of shadows and shade. A pair of rainbow lorikeets flits overhead in a flash of blue and red feathers.

"It's not like him," Hugh grouses as they walk along.

"Oh, I'm sure he'll turn up," she reassures him as they stop in a wooded corner. Amid the ferns and blue gums they find a body sprawled in the silvery bark shreds. The crushed foliage smells overly green and verdant in a clear path where the body was dragged.

Phryne looks over the surrounding area and makes observations that the constable diligently scribbles into his notebook. She's so engrossed in the task that she almost doesn't feel him come up behind her.

"So glad you could join us, Jack," she says brightly.

"Some of us would prefer not being dragged from bed so early in the morning, Miss Fisher," he grumbles.

She doesn't miss the gruff emphasis placed on those last two words, and she makes a face as she looks up at him. His damp hair is neatly combed, but there's a bare trace of stubble on his sharp jawline and his white shirt isn't quite as perfectly pressed as usual.

She wouldn't be a very good detective if she wasn't thoroughly interested in these new developments.

"So what have we got?" he asks, ignoring her remarkably fascinated gaze.

Collins flips the pages of his notebook. "His name is Thomas Cooper. He's the Plant Manager of the Gardens."

"Plant Manager?"

"Yes," Collins says. "He manages the plants."

She doesn't miss the inevitable groan as Jack quickly sends the constable off to interview the other gardeners and make arrangements for the transport of the body.

Only when the constable is gone does he move forward for a closer look. Together they kneel down, examining the clear shot and dark powder marks.

Slowly she bends further, and the crushed velvet of her blouse swings low, revealing a flash of pale skin.

She tilts her head at Jack's suddenly absorbed look (surely, it's not the case that's so attractive). A lock of dark hair swings across her face, masking the fine lines of her features as she watches him.

Without thinking he brushes it back, tucking it delicately behind her ear where it glistens sleekly in the light. He can smell her perfume, the soft fragrance of rosewood and lemon balm. She doesn't move, so he doesn't stop, tracing the thin rim of her ear and outlining the fullness of her lobe with the tip of his finger.

She rises at the arrival of the coroner's men and opens her mouth to say something, but in the end she says nothing, which, he thinks, might very well be a first for Phryne Fisher.

* * *

/*/*/*/

* * *

She drives and they interview the gardener's wife and mistress. The latter is genuinely distressed, the former not so much. She hangs on to every word the Inspector says.

The small house is dark with shadows, and they are standing together – like they do – as if it's nothing, as if it's perfectly innocent.

The wife moves off to retrieve a photograph as requested when he feels a hand on the small of his back. She moves slowly, rubbing soft little circles that he feels through the weight of his coat just on the spot that hurts in the damp.

The gardener's (correction: _Plant Manager's_) wife comes back in and hands him the image. She stands just a bit too close to him.

"Did you need anything else?" the blonde asks.

He moves to answer, but Phryne's hand suddenly slides lower, until she's positively cupping the mound of his posterior in her palm, her nails gripping him possessively.

"Did you?" Phryne asks him innocently.

* * *

/*/*/*/

* * *

Jack's never thought of gardening as particularly interesting until now.

They are squatting by a set of tread marks, just the tips of their knees touching as they balance against one another.

Now they know how the body was moved, and from where, though not yet by whom.

Phryne's eyes are bright as she lists information he's sure is relevant – at least to the case. She rocks back on her purple heels and the edge of her dress ruffles on her leg.

But this (not the case) is a game two can play, and now it's his turn.

He places his palm on her knee, and her eyes are dark as he slides it upward under the frothy hem of her skirt, over the slick silk of her stockings, to the top of her garters. He can feel the diamante band under the tips of his fingers and reads it like Braille. Phryne's breath rattles in her throat as the pads of his fingers rub the softness of her skin and he moves closer to her warm center.

A horn blares as a car rattles towards them on the street.

They both stand and he puts his hand in his pocket as her skirt falls impeccably back into place.

* * *

/*/*/*/

* * *

Only one person drives a car that makes those kinds of tracks. Unfortunately the orchid seller is not at home when they arrive.

Together they delve through the botanical notebooks left scattered across the large teak table as Collins searches the rest of house.

Tension fills the room as she tosses a copy of _Systema Naturae_ onto the polished surface and he flips closed Theophrastus's _Historia Plantarum_.

She kisses him, her mouth covering his before he can say a word.

Without warning she finds herself pinned up against the nearest wall, his body pressing her into the elaborate floral plasterwork. She opens her mouth and their tongues curl together as she breathes in the warm soap and sweat smell of him. Her little fingers slide under his shirt, against his ribs, resting on the fleet beat of his racing heart.

His hands rush through her hair, tugging it from her scalp in that way that makes her moan. He can feel her body humming with delight and approval as she cups him in her palm, rubbing him through the thin fabric of his suit pants. She hooks her leg around him, pressing herself into him, and his hand tightens on her thigh.

"Inspector! Inspector?"

Hugh's voice echoes in the empty halls.

A groan of frustration rumbles in his throat, no less than the irritation clearly etched across her face.

They separate just as the constable rushes into the room, waving a well-marked train schedule.

* * *

/*/*/*/

* * *

Phryne's waiting in his office after he and Collins lock up the guilty botanist, detained only at the last moment from boarding the Canberra train that was his means of escape.

She is leaning on his desk as he walks in, her back towards him, ostensibly reading his review of the case. The perfect roundness of her body – her shoulders, her hips, her calves, Christ, her rear, dare he say it – is outlined against the light fabric of her dress.

"Jack," she says without turning around. That's all it takes – she knows it – to hear his name in her voice.

He slams the door behind them and listens to her breathless laugh as his arms come around her waist from behind, as he pins her against him right where's she wanted to be all day.

Phryne tilts her head back and he kisses her neck, sucking at the lines of her collarbone where she taps her Jicky perfume every morning. She isn't wearing a necklace today – she knows where he likes to kiss her best, and he knows she's been planning that since this morning.

Phryne braces herself against the desk, her knuckles white on the dark wood. Their clothing sticks together – his wool vest, her silk dress – as they move against each other. She nearly cries when she hears the rip of his zipper coming undone, and yanks her skirt around her hips so he finally has a full view of those daintily beaded garters and spun lace. His fingers slip against her, and she gasps as he comes into her – she always does. No matter how long they've been doing this – and it's been some time now – it always feels blisteringly new and achingly old. Her heart's pounding, her head spinning, and his breath hisses through his teeth as she settles around him and their bodies fit together.

They've been playing at this all day, but they aren't playing now. After so many hours of teasing, they're both so wound up she's surprised they've even managed to get this far and wait this long.

She shifts lower and tightens around him and the way he calls her name makes her think he might need to explain to Collins what exactly happens when he calls them at the indecently early hour of six in the morning. When Jack's head is neatly beneath her covers, his mouth low on her body, his tongue lapping at a wetness that makes her want to scream when Dot pretends to wake her.

The wet heat of her sucks at him, pulling him deeper and deeper and she's pretty sure the door is a poor barrier to the sound of her voice as she lets herself go just before Jack himself spills within her.

His forehead falls to the back of her neck, his arms holding them together as she balances against the desk and keeps them in place, locked together where they belong.

* * *

/*/*/*/

* * *

Somehow they settle back into their clothes, and Jack supposes they look more or less normal when she opens the door and saunters into the hallway, entirely too pleased with herself.

In truth, her dress is hardly wrinkled and her lipstick's only slightly smudged (though he fears he may be wearing the rest of it, somewhere).

Collins stares at them, not even attempting to shut his mouth. Well, that's fine. All actions have consequences, and perhaps he'll remember that the next time he reaches for the telephone.

"Are you coming, Inspector?"

Phryne turns around innocuously, spinning on her heels as if she hadn't entirely planned it out.

"For what?" He still tastes her on his tongue, and she's not nearly had enough.

"How about a nightcap?"

* * *

/*/*/*/


End file.
